


Something Wicked

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Hackle, Pre-Romantic Relationship, Pre-Series, but still hints of hackle, like ghost story adjacent?, sort of a ghost story?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-17 01:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: A Halloween prank goes wrong and some students accidentally unleash a poltergeist. Deputy Headmistress Ada Cackle is paired with the reticent Miss Hardbroom as the staff sets out to return the ghoul to its rightful realm.
Relationships: Ada Cackle & Hecate Hardbroom
Comments: 15
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised (threatened?) in Whose Woods These Are, a little Hackle ghost story!
> 
> I pushed to get this released in time for Halloween, so apologies in advance for whatever errors come up. Ye were warned.
> 
> Takes place almost twenty years before TWW2017. Technically a prequel to Whose Woods These Are, but like...only tangentially?

The candles flickered from a sudden draft, and all the girls twittered in response, instantly clutching for each other in the brief flashes of darkness.

Imelda Hobblestone gave a hiss to silence their squeaks, giving a particularly dark look to Jocelyn Juniper, who was responsible for helping her organize the prank. It was a gaggle of third years and a few of the other fourth years who were their targets, with Jocelyn and Merinda Waters as her co-conspirators. Samhain was less than a week away, so the spooky air of the cellars seemed even heavier, with the thinning veil.

“Right,” Imelda gave a slow, solemn nod, bringing one of the candles closer to her face, as if telling a ghost story. “Now that we’ve formed the circle, everyone has to spin around three times, counter clockwise, and repeat the cursed verse aloud to unleash the spirit.”

Everyone nodded quickly, wide eyes and pale faces. Multiple voices found rhythm as they chanted, "Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play, shriek through havoc and sleep through day. Come forth, mischief, come forth, malice. Petti-pats, Petti-pats, arise from thy darkness!"

Raising her voice so that Merinda could hear her from her hiding place in the cupboard, she said, “Arise, dark spirit, we have come to unleash you!”

The cupboards began to rattle and bang open and shut. The third years and the rest of the fourth years tore screaming out of the basement, shrieks echoing off the stone walls and amplifying the sounds.

Imelda and Jocelyn devolved into a puddle of laughter on the floor.

“And they call themselves witches!” Jocelyn shrieked, wiping away tears of mirth.

By now, Merinda had climbed out of the old cupboard, dusting her hands on her skirt and grinning triumphantly. “Did Susie Spinnet lose her shit?”

“Pissed herself, by the looks of it,” Jocelyn snarked, and they all laughed again. Merinda helped her friends up.

An odd clattering sound echoed from the cupboards. The girls looked over, squinting slightly. One of the doors was now hanging by the bottom hinge.

“Hells bells, Rin.” Imelda whispered. “You didn’t have to go that insane.”

“I didn’t,” Merinda retorted quietly. “I swear, it was solid as a rock when I—”

An awful metallic shriek interrupted her words, and the door to the room went wonky, too.

“That definitely wasn’t me,” Merinda pointed out the obvious.

“Hey, Melds,” Jocelyn tried to keep her voice a normal volume, tried to keep her tone nonchalant. “Where exactly did you learn that chant?”

“In one of Miss Bullstrode's arcana books,” Imelda answered. Her sense of dread began to grow. “But—it’s not—everyone knows the old timey witches were absolutely batty. None of that stuff was ever—”

The door fell completely off the remaining hinge with a raucous clatter, echoing painfully in the girls’ ears.

Somehow, a candlestick knocked over, quickly snuffing out.

In the dust on the floor, words began to appear, as if written by an invisible hand:

_P…E….T…T…_

“Fuck all if I’m staying another moment in this room,” Imelda declared. Her friends agreed. The three girls bolted, but Merinda stopped them.

“Wait, we have to break the circle!”

“Right,” Imelda nodded. They grabbed the candles, quickly snuffing them out. Using the last one as a light, they kicked dust over the words etched on the floor, and the spelling stopped.

“See?” Jocelyn was panting from adrenaline and effort. “Problem solved.”

They all gave slight laughs of relief, feeling as if they’d dodged a bullet. Thank the goddess they’d all paid attention in Miss Bullstrode’s hex-breaking course.

But they didn’t pay close enough attention, apparently.

Because Imelda took the final candle, the one still lit, and walked up the stairs and back into her room with it. Leaving the summoning circle still open.

In the dark of the cellar, with no one left to disturb it, the invisible finger began tracing out its message again.

* * *

_By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. _Gardenia Gimlett lightly tapped the pads of her thumbs together as she walked down the dimly lit corridor, late as usual for the morning meal.

It was an old witches’ adage, frowned upon as superstitious silliness by most modern practitioners. But it was true—Gardenia would never admit it, never in a thousand years, but she had often felt the odd sensation whenever something horrible was on the horizon.

She told herself that it was probably an odd reaction from some new seedlings she’d been planting that week. Yes, that had to be it.

She entered the great hall, not surprised to find the rest of the staff halfway through their breakfast. She gave a few cursory nods of greeting before taking her seat next to Ada Cackle, the deputy headmistress and heir-apparent to the academy itself. The younger woman smiled warmly at her, “Well met, Miss Gimlett. How goes the new crop?”

“Quite well, I think,” Gardenia smiled in return. It was hard not to—Ada was so thoroughly unlike her mother, with her chipper attitude and winsome dimples. And most importantly, she never seemed to ask a question that she wasn’t genuinely interested in knowing the answer to. The feeling of authenticity was a refreshing one, in the fishbowl where everyone stood on politesse and societal expectation.

Well, perhaps not everyone, Gardenia mused. At the other end of the table, the newly-installed spell science teacher, Miss Gullet, was trying to engage Miss Hardbroom, the potions mistress. Gardenia guessed the newcomer assumed that, since they were the two youngest members of staff, perhaps a friendship could be struck.

Oh, how wrong she was in that assumption. Currently, she was nattering on, leaning in, waiting for some kind of response from Miss Hardbroom, who continued her breakfast in absolute silence, completely unaffected by a single word coming from Miss Gullet’s mouth.

Poor Miss Gullet. She’d learn, soon enough. Miss Hardbroom was the resident cat, in a way—she came and went as she pleased, deigning to join in conversation when it suited her and rather pointedly avoiding it when it didn’t. She was never outright rude—no, that would have required the woman to be invested in the matter, which she decidedly wasn’t. She was just…herself. For lack of better explanation.

Gardenia didn’t mind her, though. She’d sometimes visit the greenhouses for potion ingredients, and despite being less than loquacious, she was always civil, without being overly fawning or polite. She kept her conversations direct and to the point, and she treated Gimlett’s space and her tools and plants with care and respect. That was all that mattered, really.

An odd sound filled the air, like the flapping of giant wings. The windows to the dining hall went dark, and the girls all twittered at the sudden loss of light. A loud clattering sound erupted as one, long row of tables devolved into pandemonium—as if an invisible thing ran right down the middle runner of the table, upsetting bowls and cups and pitchers in its wake, girls crying out in dismay and alarm, jumping back with soaked jumpers and skirts covered in porridge.

“What on earth is going _on_?!” Alma Cackle was on her feet, slapping her hands on the breakfast table with an air of frustrated authority. She was already scowling, scanning the crowd to find the trouble maker.

Gardenia’s thumbs were practically shrieking.

The odd sound disappeared, as did the shadows from the windows.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Dimitra Drill, the chanting mistress, looked up at the windows with an expression of fear.

Everyone followed her gaze to the windows, where in the early morning fog, the words were drawn over the windowpanes: _Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play…_

Mrs. Drill and Mrs. Cackle’s exchanged long, knowing looks. Then, Mrs. Cackle announced, “Right. Meeting in the staff room, _now_.”

* * *

The thing is, Dimitra Drill shouldn’t have been there. She’d retired a year ago, after training Ada to take over her position of deputy headmistress and mistress of witching history—better known as witchory among the students. But then the chanting mistress had left (rumor had it that she’d gotten knocked up by the visiting supply wizard over the summer, and Mrs. Cackle couldn’t allow an unwed mother teaching the girls, giving them the wrong ideas about how society should be built), and the academy had been hard-pressed to find someone on such short notice. So Alma had reached out to her former colleague, and Dimitra had obliged.

Still, this was _definitely_ not what she’d signed up for.

“So,” Alma calmly clasped her hands in front of her, looking over the faces of her assembled staff. “It would seem that we have yet another poltergeist on our hands.”

“_Another_?” Ada blanched. She looked around, seeing if anyone else was as shocked by this tidbit as she was.

Miss Gullet and Miss Hardbroom looked uneasy. Mrs. Drill was thoroughly unfazed. Miss Thistle and Miss Gimlett just seemed tired, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, Ada, another,” her mother’s tone was edged with enough warning to keep Ada from voicing any further concerns. “Now, based on previous experiences, it means several things: someone unleashed it, and we need to find out who and how, so we can reverse it. It also means the ghoul will only wreak havoc during certain times and certain locations, so the sooner we figure out its timetable, the easier it will be to contain it. We’ll have to divide and conquer. Dimitra, you and I will begin interviewing the girls, to find out who’s responsible. Ada, you and Miss Hardbroom research possible spells and suspected poltergeists.”

Ada’s mind was swirling with the implication that there was some kind of running list of possible spirits to unleash, all apparently just hovering around the castle in hopes of breaking through the veil. She glanced over at Miss Hardbroom, whose face betrayed a sense of dissatisfaction—and perhaps horror, even—at the assignment. Ada hoped it was in regards to the task and not to the fact that she’d been partnered with Ada. She’d been back at Cackle’s for two years now, and she still didn’t have a read on the potions mistress.

She’d find out soon enough, she reasoned.

* * *

Once the emergency staff meeting was adjourned, Hecate Hardbroom immediately transferred to the library, right into the restricted section, where the more precious, older books were kept—as well as the most dangerous ones, far too dangerous for young girls who had no way to truly understand what they were doing when using such ancient, powerful spells.

With a wry, mirthless smirk, she realized that young girls could still do plenty of life-long damage, without the help of ancient magic. She shook her head at her own gallows humor, hands flicking down the front of her skirt as she mentally prepared herself for the task ahead.

She could do this—she tried to tell herself that it was a sign of Alma’s trust, giving her this task. She just wished it had been a solo assignment.

The door to the library cracked open and Hecate steeled herself. It wasn’t that Ada Cackle wasn’t a pleasant individual—in fact, it was the exact opposite. The woman was _too_ pleasant.

Hecate Hardbroom had learned long ago that niceties often covered the worst sins. If Ada were anything like her mother, it was just a ploy, a way to lull people into a false sense of security.

Not that Hecate knew if Ada was anything like her mother at all—she’d quite thoroughly avoided the younger Cackle as much as possible.

But then again, she had every reason to mistrust anyone bearing the name Cackle, didn’t she? She wouldn’t be surprised if Ada had been assigned to work with her, specifically to befriend her and wheedle out her secret.

Hecate smirked at the thought. _Alma, you’ll have to do better than throwing some pretty eyes and a nice smile my way, you conniving old bat_.

Not that Ada’s eyes were particularly pretty, mind you.

“Well met, Miss Hardbroom,” the woman with the perfectly-ordinary eyes in question rounded the corner with a dimpled smile, an undercurrent of anxiety still noticeable beneath her airy words. “Looks like we’ve been given the task of spinning straw into gold today.”

Hecate hummed in agreement, turning her attention back to the tall rows of books.

“Goodness,” Miss Cackle breathed, looking up as well. With a snap of her fingers, she called the bookcase ladder to their location, climbing up without further ado.

Hecate shifted back, ducking her head slightly so that she wasn’t looking directly up Miss Cackle’s rather flowy and ridiculously paisley-patterned skirt.

Ada leaned in slightly, squinting to make out the faded gold lettering on a worn spine. It would be a feat in itself, just finding the right books to start their search. Several books suddenly shifted, slipping out of the shelves with a quick snap. Ada jumped back slightly, tightening her hold on the ladder to steady herself.

She glanced down at Miss Hardbroom, who was wearing an oddly triumphant smirk. The younger woman drawled, “I think, perhaps, our time is better spent simply reading the books, rather than hunting for them.”

Ada blushed, “Right, of course. Only I didn’t—”

She stopped herself. It seemed a bit foolish, admitting that she didn’t know a spell for summoning the necessary books. Not because she couldn’t do summoning spells—but simply because she wasn’t familiar enough with this section to craft a spell specific to _these_ books and their contents.

Miss Hardbroom didn’t need an explanation. Probably didn’t want one, given her expressionless reaction. In fact, she was already moving towards the dusty old table in the corner, where the books had floated into tidy stacks.

Not for the first time, Ada felt like an outsider in her own home—well, in the place that was _supposed_ to be her home, anyways.

For two years now, she’d been back at Cackle’s. Before that, she’d stayed away for decades, telling herself that she’d never go back. But her mother had been overwhelmingly persistent, and so here she was again, finally accepting a fate that she couldn't outrun despite her best efforts. Moments like this made her realize just how long she’d been gone, just how unworthy she was of the title and position she currently held—and how even more undeserving she was of the upcoming shift to headmistress, though that was many years away still.

It was even more painfully obvious when someone like Miss Hardbroom—who’d been here as a teacher nearly three times as long as Ada, who knew her way around with such evident ease, who wasn’t even thirty yet—stepped up, silently showing Ada the things she should already know, making Ada feel even more inept and out-of-place.

Ada took a deep breath and moved over to the table, where Miss Hardbroom was already seated, gingerly flipping through a book so old that it looked as if it might disintegrate in her hands. Ada selected a book as well and began her search.

They didn’t exchange a single word until the bells rang for midday meal. Ada rose to her feet, looking down at Miss Hardbroom, who was still reading. She considered asking the woman if she was coming, but it was evident that they would be wasted words—and given the hours of silence between them, it was also evident that Miss Hardbroom would prefer not to be disturbed with pointless questions. So Ada simply walked away, the joints in her legs relishing the chance to move again. Those old wooden chairs were particularly unforgiving, and her body was on the wrong side of thirty when it came to being unaffected by such things.

She thought perhaps Miss Hardbroom would finish whatever she was reading, and then come to lunch. However, the meal was over and Miss Hardbroom still had not appeared. With a flutter of concern, Ada arranged a small plate and took it with her, back to the restricted section, where Miss Hardbroom still sat, now entranced in a different book—she didn’t even look up when Ada approached.

“I thought you might like a break,” Ada set the plate down next to Miss Hardbroom. She realized that the younger woman absolutely intimidated her—if it were anyone else, she’d simply _tell_ them to take a break, but even now, she couldn’t bring herself to simply ask Miss Hardbroom to take three minutes to eat. It seemed too direct, too easily challenged, too easily overthrown.

_I’m going to be her headmistress one day_, Ada reminded herself. Technically, as deputy head, she was already the woman’s boss. _You have to get used to being in charge, Ada—taking care of those who won’t take the time to care for themselves is part of the job. Your staff are your responsibility._

It was her mother’s voice echoing in her head now, slightly reprimanding, telling Ada things she should already know, should already be doing.

The potions mistress merely hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as she turned another page with a theatrical slowness that seemed rather pointed, as if to say, _Yes, well, I’m currently rather busy, Miss Cackle._

It also seemed like a silent condemnation of Ada’s current state—not busy, not trying to save the school from whatever ghostly spirit had taken over. Ada quashed the desire to defend herself against unspoken (and possibly entirely imagined) accusations, instead taking her seat once more and picking up where she’d left off in her reading. Conversationally, she added, “I spoke to the others at lunch—they said there hasn’t been another incident since breakfast—at least one that anyone’s aware of. So that’s a help in narrowing down the timetable, I think. And none of the girls have anything to say, which is unsurprising. Who would admit to unleashing a poltergeist?”

This earned her an amused hum from Miss Hardbroom, who still hadn’t looked up from her reading. She wasn’t being outright rude, but she was obviously trying to focus on her reading, and making no effort to encourage Ada’s conversation to continue.

With a light sigh, Ada began her own reading.

Hecate waited until she knew the woman was truly engrossed in her task before daring to glance up. Returning with gifts of food and gossip? The woman was obviously angling for something. Trying to strike up a rapport, no doubt. Hecate’s suspicion over Alma’s involvement only deepened.

It made her blood boil, to be honest. That anyone could look at her and think she was some stray dog, easily won over with some food and a few nice words. As if she were still that stupid, that naïve, that…_desperate_.

Her stomach clenched in hunger, but she didn’t even glance at the plate. She’d gone longer without eating. She could find something for herself in the kitchens, once she’d finished her task. Something that came without strings, without unspoken expectations.

With a snap of her fingers, she sent the plate away. Miss Cackle sat up slightly at that, blinking in mild surprise. Hecate kept her face devoid of expression as she continued her reading, skimming over the same paragraph again and again, her mind unable to process the words. Her adrenaline spiked as she waited for something, for anything from the other woman, for some kind of confrontation.

But nothing came. Miss Cackle merely returned to her reading, and Hecate’s fight or flight response slowly tamped down as well.

They didn’t speak again for several hours. Hecate was grateful for the silence.

When the dinner bells rang, Ada rose to her feet again. “Miss Hardbroom, I must insist that you take a break.”

She saw the woman’s mouth set into a thin, strong line, and for a moment, she thought Miss Hardbroom might refuse. However, instead, she gave a long, slow, sigh and shifted out of her chair as well. Her face flickered with a look of pain, and Ada realized she wasn’t the only one affected by the awful chairs.

Ada wanted to say something, to have some small moment of camaraderie or at least commiseration, but she stopped herself. It was painfully obvious at this point that for whatever reason, Miss Hardbroom had no interest in such things. So instead, she merely walked along beside the tall woman, back through the library and out into the hall.

Hecate’s knees were screaming, but she pushed herself to keep walking. Normally she’d transfer, but she knew her legs needed the change of pace—she’d only left her chair three times the entire day, and it hadn’t been enough for her joints or her circulation.

Worse than the ache was the frustrated sense of failure. So far, their day spent trawling through records had gleaned absolutely nothing of value, and she dreaded saying as much to Alma over dinner.

Not that she cared about the woman’s approval (can’t lose something you never had, after all), but more because she liked proving that she could be clever, that she could find and see the things that others couldn’t—in a way, it was a nice little small warning to the headmistress, a reminder that Hecate, despite her circumstances, was far more dangerous than she was in danger.

Maybe that was why Ada was babysitting her. Because Alma needed Hecate’s skills to find the answer to this current riddle, but also didn’t want her getting too many grand ideas in regards to her own situation. Hecate wondered if Ada knew. If Ada was meant to watch her, to pay attention to the types of spells Hecate read, to make sure she wasn’t focused on somehow freeing herself, rather than this errant spirit.

She glanced over surreptitiously at the woman walking beside her. Ada had Alma’s auburn hair, but the resemblance stopped there. She dressed like she had a few bats in the belfry—patterns that never actually matched, wide woven belts and large medallions, flowy skirts and peasant tops and always, always a sweater, even in late spring. Somehow, it always looked…not as awful as it sounded. Hecate kept her own wardrobe simple and black; she didn’t pretend to know anything about fashion. She wondered if Miss Cackle had picked up this eccentric sense of style from the outside world, from all the far-off and foreign places she’d visited during her years away (there had been the random stories, from time to time, Alma briefly mentioning where Ada was off to now, and it had always made Hecate seethe, knowing Alma’s own child was careening through the entire known world, magical and nonmagical, and no one batted an eye, no one cared, no one dared punish her, no one went out to spy on her, to make sure she was staying firmly behind the veil—once again, those with power had a different set of rules from those without, and Hecate’s skin ached at the injustice). Part of her wanted to ask, but the larger, more cautious part of her kept those questions firmly locked in her head.

As if on cue, Miss Cackle let out a low sigh, finally breaking the silence, “I had really hoped we’d find something today. Some kind of…answer, or a clue at least.”

Hecate made a small sound of agreement. Then, she added, “Well, at least tomorrow there are fewer books to search.”

Miss Cackle nodded, but she didn’t look relieved at the thought, chewing her bottom lip—and Hecate understood. Because fewer books meant fewer chances to find something helpful. And what if they didn’t learn anything at all? What if they failed?

Pandemonium erupted through the halls. Both women stopped, trying to figure out where the sounds were coming from. Hecate placed it first, grabbing Miss Cackle’s sleeve and transferring them both to the front foyer, where feathers still swirled in a chaotic vortex, books and hair ribbons getting caught up as well as the girls cowered and cried out in confusion and fear.

Hecate’s pulse skyrocketed as she whipped her head around, trying to find some kind of point of reference, some place to start dismantling the chaos. Miss Cackle was doing the same thing, spinning around so quickly that she bumped into Hecate.

“The girls!” Miss Cackle must have understood Hecate’s thought process, suggesting the first element to tackle in the complex and unknown equation.

Hecate nodded. Above the din, she suggested, “Transfer them to the library.”

They’d just left. It was still safe. At least Hecate hoped so. Raising her hand, she started focusing on small groups—just two at a time, sending them on their way. More girls were disappearing, and she knew Miss Cackle must be transferring them as well.

The odd little maelstrom continued, but they were now the only ones in the room. Hecate quickly thought of a weighting spell and cast it upon a twirling book—it immediately hit the ground.

“What’d you do?” Miss Cackle asked, surprised.

“Just shield us,” Hecate told her. She felt the ripple of magic around her, saw the way the feathers and ribbons bounced off the invisible barrier, and then she pushed out with her own magic, setting the spell on everything around them. Feathers shot straight to the floor, books and ribbons clattering with hard, heavy sounds.

However, the items fell into a very distinct pattern.

**_PLAY_**. The word seemed more ominous, when spelt helter-skelter with ribbons and shoes and feathers, large and stilted.

The room was eerily quiet. Ada looked around cautiously before stepping forward to inspect the message. With a glance back at Miss Hardbroom, she gently asked, “Play what, exactly?”

The younger woman’s dark eyes traced an invisible path upwards, scanning the ceiling as she quietly returned, “I haven’t a clue. But I would wager it’s not a game we want to play.”

Ada merely hummed in agreement. “We should go get the girls.”

Miss Hardbroom gave a small, stiff nod. She transferred them away before Ada could even consider such a thing.

Her head was still spinning slightly as Miss Hardbroom moved forward, shunting open the doors to the library to reveal a group of twittering girls, tear-streaked faces and wind-blown hair.

Ada gathered her wits and her skirts, pushing into the room to reassure everyone that everything was under control. She felt Miss Hardbroom’s slight tense at the words, as if she were physically holding back a retort to the opposite, and she was grateful for the woman’s restraint.

Once reassurances were made, they headed to the dining hall, the girls huddling closer than usual and keeping far quieter than usual, too. The smallness and the fear made Ada’s heart clench. She glanced over at Miss Hardbroom, whose jaw was as tight as Ada’s chest felt.

They needed to get rid of this ghoul and its games. Ada promised herself she’d stay up all night, she’d go through every book and every scrap of paper in this castle, if that’s what it took.

Something in the set of Miss Hardbroom’s ramrod shoulders told her that she wouldn’t have to ask the woman to join her—the determination was palpable, and, in a way, comforting. Miss Hardbroom might be a quiet sort, but she wore her emotions plainly enough, and Ada knew the woman would gladly help, no matter what it took.

They made their way to the head table, where most of the staff already waited.

“Any luck?” Dimitra Drill asked, her expression hopeful as she took her seat as well, smoothing down her robes.

Ada shook her head. “But we’ve got a few more books left—we plan to tackle them after dinner.”

She glanced over at Miss Hardbroom, who gave a single, slow nod of agreement. She didn’t seem surprised at the suggestion at all. Ada felt another measure of relief. So they were on the same page, then.

Given the events in the foyer, Ada felt a sense of comfort in knowing Miss Hardbroom would be with her. She might not be a sparkling conversationalist, but she was quick on her feet and cool in a crisis. That was all that mattered.

They might actually make a good team, Ada thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Ada closed her final book with a heavy sigh. Miss Hardbroom was still seated as well, already finished reading but staring vacantly ahead, as if her mind were calibrating the information, searching for something.

They’d returned to the library after dinner, but Ada had suggested that this time, they sit in the comfortable wingback chairs near the fireplace, at the entrance to the library. Miss Hardbroom had easily agreed, and Ada thought that perhaps the awful wooden chairs in the restricted section might have been just as grueling for her. It was nearly Samhian and the first chill of winter was starting to creep into the evenings, so they’d lit the logs in the fireplace, making the room comfortably warm and oddly cheery.

“Tea?” Ada suggested, looking up at the clock. It was late. After dinner, the staff had drawn straws to see who would stay on guard for each shift, hopefully to mitigate what damage they could when the spirit struck again. Ada and Miss Hardbroom’s shift started in less than an hour, so there was no sense in trying to sleep before then.

Miss Hardbroom simply nodded, her gaze still fixed upon an unseen mark. Every now and then, her fingertip would twitch, every so slightly, as if she were pulling at a mental thread. Ada quietly made tea, trying not to disturb the woman.

She was strange, no doubt about it. But strange in the way oracles and great seers were, Ada thought. Strange in a way that couldn’t be touched by the mindlessness of their modern world. Strange in a way that bespoke a depth that few people could sound. Ada felt less offended by the obvious silences between them, the odd little moments that seemed stilted, the times in the past when she’d made Ada feel unwanted and awkward.

Ada waited until it seemed that Miss Hardbroom was circling back to being slightly more present before gently offering her tea. Miss Hardbroom’s dark eyes flicked up to her, scrutinizing her with an odd sense of wariness before gingerly taking the cup and saucer from her hands.

“Thank you,” Miss Hardbroom said, rushed and belatedly, several moments after Ada had turned away and began preparing her own cup.

“You’re welcome,” Ada returned simply, settling back into her seat. Miss Hardbroom was still watching her, head tilted slightly in curiosity, face set in an unreadable expression. One good turn deserves another, Ada reasoned, and she simply watched Miss Hardbroom back.

Goddess, she hadn’t realized how young the woman was. Of course, in theory, she knew that Miss Hardbroom was fairly young. But the light of the fire washed out so much of her features, making her youth even more noticeable in the soft, round edges of her face, the big brown eyes that seemed perfectly suited for a sad porcelain doll, the perfectly unblemished smoothness of her hands.

“How long have you been here again?” Ada asked, her tone curious and conversational.

Miss Hardbroom visibly tensed at that, as if she’d been pricked by a needle. She glanced down, took a small sip of her tea, and then answered, “All my life, it seems.”

Ada hummed at the quip, not failing to notice that the retort easily stepped around actually answering the question. She guessed, “You were a student here?”

Now those dark eyes flicked back to Ada, but the sad little doll air was gone, replaced with something harder, something fierier. “You should already know that, Miss Cackle. It’s all in my personnel file.”

The intensity of her reaction took Ada by surprise. There was almost…an accusation? Some kind of condemnation in Miss Hardbroom’s tone?

Still, Ada pushed forward, “I should, perhaps, but I don’t. I don’t make a habit of trawling through staff records in my free time, Miss Hardbroom.”

Something eased in the younger woman’s face. As if Ada could physically see each tick of the dial, pulling her back into something more restrained, something less raw and angry.

“I suppose not,” she answered softly.

Hecate’s mind echoed: _But you’ll know, soon enough._

She gripped the edges of the book still in her lap with one hand, fingers tightening around the handle of her teacup with the other. She didn’t like this, this feeling of almost being laid bare, this grating against her scars without the full revelation. The anxiety of _almost_, worse than the main event every time.

She sent the book back to its place on the shelf, shifting slightly and keeping her gaze firmly away from Miss Cackle.

Still, she could feel the woman’s curiosity, raking over her face like a spiderweb, clinging and insistent.

The oddest part was that Hecate…didn’t actually mind. She just looked away, not seeing but still letting herself be seen. The heat from the fire hid the flush in her cheeks, and somehow, in the darkness and the warmth, she felt safe. Miss Cackle was curious, nothing more. Neither condoning or condemning. It was neutral and…comfortable, almost.

Ada had stepped over a line, she knew that much—what the hell that line was, now _that_ was an utter mystery. But Miss Hardbroom seemed to understand that it wasn’t intentional, and though a stilted silence reigned, it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

The potions mistress was a bit like a sphinx, Ada decided. But it wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t an affect, some tired game she’d seen some women play, trying too hard to be mysterious and unattainable, wry smiles and dropped hints like glass slippers at a ball, far too obvious to be accidental. No, Miss Hardbroom wasn’t _trying_ to be anything—she simply _was_. It was refreshing. And intriguing.

But none of this made Ada Cackle lean in. No, it was the hesitation—the feeling of constantly pulling oneself back, of needing to stay within a certain box, an unspoken geography of expectation—that made Ada want to reach out in empathy and understanding. Miss Hardbroom had almost said something, but pulled back, as if not trusting herself, not trusting anyone around her. And oh, how Ada understood that small action and its life-altering consequences, the feeling of needing to keep her own council, to not trust anyone when even those closest to you had proven a danger rather than a support.

Ada cleared her throat gently, looking down at her tea. “I was thinking…perhaps we should start our rounds in the cellars. There’s so much arcana stored down there, it seems like a logical place to sprout a poltergeist.”

Hecate hummed in agreement. She didn’t go down there often, but when she did, she could always feel the stale remnants of centuries-old magic, could almost feel the ghosts of witches past brushing against her skin. It made sense, looking around down there.

They finished their tea, quietly building a plan for covering every room of the extensive cellar system. Given what they’d seen before dinner, they also decided on a plan of which spells to use, if a particular situation arose.

Despite their planning, Ada’s stomach still roiled with anxiety as they descended into the cellars, each armed with a torch as they cautiously began their search.

Eventually, they came upon an open door—open only because the door itself was on the ground, the hinges bent and broken.

“What on earth?” Ada breathed, gingerly stepping closer to inspect the hinges. They were thick, far too strong to fall apart or be broken accidentally—and whatever broke them would have to be very, very strong.

The air shifted behind her as Miss Hardbroom pushed past, drawn to the center of them room. She held her torch aloft, illuminating as much as she could. Ada followed her line of vision to the words etched in the dust on the floor.

_Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play…_

“The same words on the windows this morning,” Miss Hardbroom announced, rather unnecessarily.

Ada glanced around the room, noting the cabinet doors off their hinges, the candles knocked over in an uneven circle. The scuffled footprints, obviously from smaller feet.

Apparently Miss Hardbroom had noticed that as well, because she looked up at Ada, her face lined with a knowing certainty as she quietly added, “I think perhaps we should ask Mrs. Cackle to speak to the girls again.”

Ada nodded. However, she added, “Perhaps…_we_ should be the ones asking the questions, this time.”

Miss Hardbroom merely gave a small, curt nod of agreement. She turned, gaze sweeping around the room, looking for any further clues. Finally, she decreed, “I think we’ve seen enough. But we should check the remaining rooms, just in case. There are only twenty-six left, if you count the two small closets.”

Ada felt a ripple of surprise. “You know the exact number of rooms in the cellar?”

Miss Hardbroom blinked at her. “Of course. Don’t you?”

“No,” Ada admitted easily. “I never counted them, I suppose.”

Again, another unreadable yet inexplicably pained expression flitted across Miss Hardbroom’s face. But she didn’t comment further, merely moving past her, back into the hallway.

Inwardly, Hecate berated herself. She was only making herself look stranger, more curious to Miss Cackle, who had already expressed far too much interest in her past.

Because of course Hecate Hardbroom knew exactly how many rooms were in this castle. All those summers and winter half terms spent alone, with no one to pass the time (no one who cared to spend any amount of time with her, anyways). She’d had to find ways to stave off the boredom. Reading every book in the library. Learning every plant in the garden. Find every room, every closet in the castle. Keeping count of days and hours and rooms and windows, knowing that some counts would never stop (the years would keep coming, the minutes and seconds and eons of her punishment, always, always ticking away).

She pushed her legs to move faster, to put more distance between herself and Miss Cackle, between herself and her past.

She rounded a corner and was immediately hit by a solid wall of cold, billowing and bellowing past her with ear-splitting shrieks. Miss Cackle was behind her immediately, pulling her back to safety in the adjacent corridor, their backs slamming against the hard stone wall as the invisible force continued shooting past, the cold air slicing at their skin as if there were genuine flecks of ice within.

It was pitch black now, their torches blown out by the wind. Hecate cringed and curled in slightly, closer to Miss Cackle. Then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

The silence was deafening. Hecate’s ears were ringing painfully, trying to readjust to the sudden lack of sound. Light burst forth as Miss Cackle relit her torch.

“Are you alight?” Miss Cackle’s hearing must have been affected, too, because her voice was loud, far too loud, the way people spoke when they weren’t aware of their volume at all.

“Yes—yes, I think so,” Hecate let her hands smooth down the front of her skirt, mentally cataloguing her body and making sure her assessment was accurate. “And—are you?”

Miss Cackle nodded quickly. Her hand was smoothing down hair that had been a wild mess of waves long before chaos had struck. She used to a summoning spell to call Hecate’s torch from across the corridor, where it had been dropped. She relit it as well and handed it back to Hecate.

“Should we…try again?” Hecate gestured towards the corner again.

“As much as I’d like to say no, I think we have to,” Miss Cackle admitted. Hecate nodded in agreement—she felt exactly the same.

With a deep breath, they stepped around the corner again, together.

No wind. No howling. Nothing at all.

“Should we be scared or relieved, at this point?” Miss Cackle asked. There was a dryness to her tone that made Hecate crack a smirk in response.

Hecate pushed her torch out further, letting it float magically down the corridor ahead of them.

Behind her, Miss Cackle gave a soft gasp—a half-second later, Hecate understood why.

The hallway was littered with the bodies of rats, some of which had been gruesomely deconstructed. A glimmer on the wall caught Hecate’s attention, and she shifted to the opposite side to get a better look.

Again, the now-familiar words glistened, freshly painted in sticky red blood: _Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play…_

Miss Cackle made a low sound. Then, she quietly admitted, “I really, really don’t want to play this game anymore.”

Hecate pressed her lips into a thin line, “Neither do I.”

She felt the tug of a summoning spell, just before she was whisked away.

* * *

“What’s happened?” Ada asked, as soon as she was firmly back on solid ground again. Her mother’s summoning spell had brought them straight to the student quarters, where it was obvious that some commotion had woken the girls. Beside her, Miss Hardbroom was looking around wildly, equally concerned.

“Some of the girls found rats in their beds,” Alma admitted grimly. “Let’s just say they weren’t alive when they were found, either.”

Ada blanched. She didn’t need to know the rest—she had a rather firm suspicion that they were awfully like the rats they’d just found in the cellars.

“Any messages?” Miss Hardbroom asked. Noting Alma’s confusion, she added, “When the rats were found, were there any messages written nearby—on the wall, or the floor?”

“Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play.” Ada quoted, hoping to further clarify. Something about saying it aloud, in a certain cadence, pulled at the back of her memory.

But Alma merely shook her head. “I think the dead rats were rather message enough, don’t you?”

Ada glanced over at Miss Hardbroom, whose lips were pressed into a thin line. On the outset, it looked like an expression of disapproval. Now, having spent more time with the woman, Ada recognized it as a look of worry—and perhaps, yes, fear.

Once everyone had been accounted for (and deemed relatively safe), the upset girls were quietened. Ada felt a measure of displeasure when her mother denied the girls’ requests to sleep elsewhere—she simply told them that they had fresh linens and that there was no need to be silly, it was all over now, and the girls didn’t dare object, despite the fear still palpable in their young faces.

Miss Hardbroom had turned away, shoulders high and tight, arms crossed over her chest like a vise. Ada waited a beat before gingerly clearing her throat and softly stepping closer. Miss Hardbroom looked up, something haunted leaving her face, fleeting and gone before Ada could fully register it.

“I think we should call it a night,” Ada admitted carefully. After a beat, Miss Hardbroom gave a small nod of agreement. “But meet back in the library, first thing tomorrow?”

Again, Miss Hardbroom nodded, but this time with more emphasis. Without further ado, she transferred away.

Ada turned back to see her mother watching her with an unreadable expression—and despite its illegibility, the disapproval was still quite clear in the set of her mouth. Ada wanted to ask her what the look was for, but she was far too exhausted to start another row.

She’d deal with it tomorrow, she told herself. For now, she needed to rest.

* * *

The next morning, Ada was absolutely not surprised to find Miss Hardbroom already in the library, face even paler than usual, the dark circles under her eyes even more noticeable in the sickly grey light coming through the open windows.

“I…didn’t know where to begin,” Miss Hardbroom admitted, sounding almost like a child caught wandering the halls after hours. As if she felt she should already be working, before Ada had even arrived.

“I don’t either, to be perfectly honest,” Ada returned gently. For some reason, it felt comforting, being equally lost. At least they were lost together. She continued, “I spoke to Mrs. Drill, on my way here. There were a few more incidents in the night, though nothing as ghastly as the rats. The kitchens were ransacked, bowls broken, a huge mess made, that sort of thing. More mischief than malice, thank goodness.”

Dimitra had been more wan than Ada had seen her in a very long time. Of course, she’d also just finished her watch, which had begun the few hours before dawn, so naturally she was also just exhausted. But the worry had still been evident in her face. Ada had long learned not to put much stock in her mother’s volatile and varied emotional states, but Dimitra had been a rock throughout her childhood—and when she was shaken, then it had to be quite serious indeed.

“And no more messages?” Miss Hardbroom guessed.

Ada shook her head. She frowned slightly, “And it’s always the same line, over and over again. A bit odd, don’t you think?”

“As someone who has precisely zero previous experience with poltergeists, I have to admit, I find the whole thing odd,” Miss Hardbroom drawled, the wryness tinging her tone just enough to make Ada laugh softly.

“Yes, I suppose that’s a rather valid point.”

“But you’re right,” Miss Hardbroom conceded softly. She looked up at the ceiling, the corners of her eyes tightening as she considered. “It’s not…an attempt to communicate would involve a question, wouldn’t it? Some kind of…variation, one would think. But this is quite specific. Less of a conversation and a more of…an invitation.”

“An invitation to come out and play,” Ada added. She rubbed her chin as she mulled it over. Slowly, she began pacing in front of the fireplace, her brain tugging at the familiar sensation of _almost knowing_ that she’d felt the night before. Miss Hardbroom shifted, hands resting on the top of the chair she was standing behind, watching Ada pace with a rather disinterested air. Ada spoke up again, “You know, last night—I almost felt like it sounded familiar, the line…”

“Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play,” Miss Hardbroom supplied. She, too, uttered it in the same cadence. She blinked slightly, as if surprised herself by the pattern.

“It is familiar,” she agreed, frowning slightly. She reached out, her fingers flexing and tensing, as if physically trying to hang on to some thought flitting through her mind. Ada stopped pacing, fully watching the younger woman. She could practically hear the gears clicking and turning in Miss Hardbroom’s head. “I—ah, yes, no—it is _quite_ familiar.”

Miss Hardbroom started moving forwards, toward the book shelves, but then stopped, face scrunching in confusion as her fingers continued their twitching, obviously agitated with her faulty memory.

“Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play…” Ada repeated quietly. Miss Hardbroom’s fingers twitched again.

“There’s…more.” She finally said. Her face was still skewed in a confused, half-dazed expression, though it looked adorably quizzical, Ada realized. Like she was casting back in her memory, tickling up against something still not entirely recalled.

Ada blinked. Yes, Miss Hardbroom was right. There was more. It was some kind of…nursery rhyme. A hopscotch chant, or something like that.

“We should ask the girls,” she realized.

Miss Hardbroom gave a small shake of her head. “Even if they did know the rhyme, they wouldn’t admit to it now.”

She turned back to Ada with a sudden sharpness, eyes wide. “Which girls had rats in their beds?”

“I don’t know,” Ada admitted. With a raise of her eyebrows, she added, “But we could find out.”

“I think,” Miss Hardbroom took a step closer to Ada, hands coming up slowly, as if physically outlining her thoughts. “I think they are the ones we should be asking. If this is an invitation…wouldn’t it be extended to the ones who summoned this…spirit in the first place?”

“Makes sense,” Ada agreed. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was still a good half-hour before the morning bells would chime, and she didn’t want to wake the girls before then. They’d all had their sleep disrupted enough for one night. She turned back to Miss Hardbroom. “Perhaps, in the mean time, we could figure out the rhyme.”

Miss Hardbroom gestured back to the rows and rows of books behind them, “I think, perhaps—if only—there’s a book of bedtime rhymes, I know, and maybe…maybe the folklore section as well?”

“Excellent starting points,” Ada moved forward as well, heading to the necessary section. Miss Hardbroom followed close behind, and soon they were standing side by side, flipping through books and scanning each page, though neither could say precisely what they were searching for—and both were silently hoping they’d just know it when they saw it.

“Petti-pats,” Miss Hardbroom murmured to herself. “Vaguely…dark ages, don’t you think?”

“Sounds a bit more like late Middle Ages to me,” Ada admitted. She didn’t look up, but Miss Hardbroom’s low hum of agreement was confirmation enough.

The morning bells rang, heralding the start of a new day.

Miss Hardbroom didn’t stop her reading, though she immediately seemed more on-edge, despite the nonchalance of her tone, “I’ll continue reading. You find out the names of the girls, and then we’ll speak to them, together, after breakfast.”

Ada nodded, taking another beat to simply notice all the ways Miss Hardbroom’s body language had shifted in such a small time. She hadn’t actually moved that much at all, but now she seemed as closed as a clam. Ada thought back to her body language the night before.

It was then that she realized that she’d never actually seen her mother and Miss Hardbroom interact, beyond the barest of exchanges. They didn’t sit near each other at meals, and at staff meetings, Alma generally didn’t speak to Miss Hardbroom at all—she often referred to her in a passive way, just like the day before, when she’d given Ada the assignment by saying _you and Miss Hardbroom_.

Ada mulled this over in her mind as she transferred away to the headmistress’ office.

* * *

The list of girls who’d gotten rats in their bed was longer than Hecate had expected, truth be told. Still, she rounded them up easily enough, bringing them all to the potions lab with Miss Cackle. Not a single girl objected—not when Miss Hardbroom was the one giving the order.

Hecate considered it quite good luck that Dimitra’s girl wasn’t still here. Dimity Drill would have certainly talked back, most likely using the nickname that Hecate despised. She was rather glad to see the back of that one. Even if she did have an aptitude for potions that put almost every other student she’d taught to shame.

The girls seemed a bit relieved when they saw Miss Cackle appear, and Hecate supposed she couldn’t blame them. The woman had built up a reputation for being a soft one, always sing-songing her way into her classroom in the mornings, ever-present sweater filled with lemon drops and caramels for the younger girls, always giving chances to make up for bad exam marks, always giving term papers a chance to be rewritten. Also the least likely to report an infraction to the headmistress, surprisingly enough.

Hecate never knew what to make of that last bit. A clever ruse to build trust between herself and the girls? A way to somehow stick it to her mother? Genuine concern? Absolute apathy?

She certainly didn’t have time to unravel it now. Besides, for all she knew, that bit was just gossip between the girls—they always found the weirdest and wildest stories to tell about the staff. One memorable year, someone had started at rumor that Miss Hardbroom was actually vampire. She hadn’t refuted the claim and had taken to using excessive sun protection whenever she went out of doors—large hats and big black umbrellas, covering every inch of her skin possible. She’d found that, for the next two terms, all of her classes had been extremely well-mannered and attentive. Then one day she’d forgotten and had been caught in the learning garden, no sun protection in place, sleeves rolled up and toiling away, no burning or shrieking involved. She could only imagine the rumor died rather quickly after that, because there was slightly less fear from the girls afterwards.

Oh, well. No regrets. She’d made the most of it, while she could.

“Now,” Miss Cackle stepped forward, skirt swirling around her ankles. Today she was wearing an aubergine empress-waisted dress with pleats, and odd-looking wooden clogs, which surprisingly matched the heavy wooden bangles at her wrists, pushing up the sleeves of her sage-colored sweater. Her hair was down as well—Hecate mildly noted that the woman would be an absolute disaster in the potions lab, with her flowy clothing and unsecured hair. For some reason, that amused her.

Miss Cackle continued, “Last night, you were all victims of another prank from our new poltergeist.”

_Prank_ isn’t the term Hecate would use, but she supposed it made the girls a little less uneasy. Made it seem less serious, less terrifying.

“And although I know you’ve already spoken to the headmistress, I think perhaps it’s time you tell us what you _really_ know about what happened in the cellars.”

Classic teaching move. Imply you knew more about a situation than you actually did, in the hopes that your students would think you already knew everything and then confess.

It worked. Merinda Waters was the first to crack, “It was just a joke, Miss Cackle—a harmless bit of fun!”

“Tell that to the rats,” Hecate arched a brow. Several girls blanched at the memory.

“It wasn’t real,” Merinda argued, throwing her arms out in a helpless gesture. “It wasn’t—it shouldn’t have worked. We just wanted to scare the others, just a little Halloween prank. Imelda found the only chant in a book—”

“Which book?” Miss Cackle interrupted, turning her attention to Imelda.

Given the teen’s expression, it was a book that she wasn’t supposed to have. Miss Cackle simply waited, blue eyes watching her with endless patience.

Finally, Imelda confessed, “It’s from one of the books Miss Bullstrode used for a lecture on summoning circles. But—it was just one of the nursery rhymes. We didn’t—it wasn’t _real_.”

“Again, I must repeat—_real_ animals were brutally murdered, so I think they might argue that it was, in fact, very real. If they were still alive to argue, that is.” Miss Hardbroom’s voice was low and soft, but there was a note of steel running underneath.

That was a bit surprising, Ada thought. Most people weren’t particularly fond of rats, most wouldn’t give whit that anything had happened to them. Still, she had other matters to focus on, at the moment, “Where is the book now?”

“Miss Bullstrode still has it,” Imelda spoke almost excitedly, as if this was somehow a point in her favor. “I didn’t steal it—I just copied the lines down while she was out of the room—”

Miss Hardbroom rolled her eyes. “So you didn’t even properly read the details of such a verse, to best know how it might affect you?”

“We didn’t even say the whole thing!” Imelda shot back. “It shouldn’t have worked—we didn’t _do_ anything to make it work.”

“Well, then, we are very lucky indeed, to have such powerful young witches in our care,” Miss Hardbroom drawled. “To think, without even trying, Miss Cackle, they’ve summoned some sort of vengeful ghoul. One wonders what they could do if they _actually_ put their minds to it.”

Ada had to dip her head to hide her smile. She hadn’t expected humor from the woman, not in a moment like this. Still, it was a nice way to leak the tension.

“Right,” she looked up, once she’d regained composure. “Miss Hardbroom and I will find this book. And for your sakes, you’d best hope that we can fix this.”

The girls all nodded solemnly.

“Are you…” Jocelyn Juniper swallowed hard, tried again. “Are you going to tell Mrs. Cackle?”

Ada considered the question. Again, she couldn’t help but notice the way Miss Hardbroom’s entire body tensed at the mention of her mother’s name.

“I’m not sure yet,” she answered honestly. “And I don’t mean that as some kind of suspenseful threat. But once this is sorted, we will talk about this again, understood?”

Again, the girls nodded in agreement. A few were blinking back tears.

“To your classes,” Miss Hardbroom waved the door open. “And if a teacher asks where you were, tell them I asked to discuss your latest quiz scores. They can come to me if they take issue.”

Hecate glanced back to see Miss Cackle smiling at her in mild surprise. Her heart skipped a beat, startled by the woman’s expression (though she couldn’t say why it startled her, only that it did—because why else would her heart hammer so?).

“That’s rather kind of you,” Miss Cackle noted.

“As deputy headmistress, you had already made a decision to potentially not reveal the truth,” Hecate pointed out. “I was simply following your lead.”

Her tone neither condemned nor condoned Ada’s decision.

Ada pressed on, “And it was rather kind of you, being concerned over the rats.”

Miss Hardbroom’s lips twitched in an unreadable expression. Flatly, she said, “The Witches Code states we are stewards of the goddess’ gifts, both flora and fauna, every living thing. _See that no harm shall come to pass upon those the goddess has deemed to be_. That includes even our less-than-welcome inhabitants of this castle.”

Ada glanced at the shelves of potion ingredients behind the woman. With a wry grin, she noted, “Your potions supply isn’t exactly vegan, Miss Hardbroom.”

“No philosophy is without its flaws,” the younger woman returned with a light sniff.

With that, she clipped out of the room, most likely to find Miss Bullstrode and her book. Ada hurried to catch up, feeling like somehow, she’d said something to offend the woman (but she hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true, even if she’d only said it in jest). It was a bit disappointing, considering that it felt like they’d been building up a sense of camaraderie over the past twenty-four hours. Questioning the girls had felt like a team effort, in a way that Ada hadn’t achieved with any of the other staff here. There was a rhythm there, something easily found and _right_ feeling.

And now, even though she’d caught up to Miss Hardbroom, the potions mistress was very pointedly not acknowledging her in any way. Even more so than yesterday, when they’d started in the library. Ada briefly considered apologizing, but honestly, what did she have to apologize for?

With a light sigh, Ada realized she may never figure out Miss Hardbroom. Just as well, she supposed. The woman was mercurial. Best to give a wide berth to that sort.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about carrots on sticks, Hecate Hardbroom had learned, was that once the carrot was obtained, the stick would swiftly follow. It had been a favored tool of her parents: a compliment was always a catalyst to bring about a greater criticism. _What a lovely drawing, Joy. My, if only you put this much effort and dedication into learning your sacred chants_.

Alma did that, too. Condemnations disguised as compliments. And now, Hecate had her answer on whether Ada Cackle was truly like her mother—because she’d done the same thing, complimenting Hecate's ideology and then chastising her hypocrisy, with that endearingly sweet smile, without even batting her pretty blue eyes (they _weren’t_ pretty, they were perfectly ordinary, but Hecate did like the turn of phrase).

Except now, Hecate Hardbroom wasn’t some little wide-eyed witchling, desperate for a pat on the head and some nice words.

Now, Hecate didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt as she silently read through Miss Bullstrode’s book, letting Miss Cackle stand helplessly beside her. She didn’t owe the woman anything. By the looks of it, they were going to have to spend several more decades together, so she might as well make the lines between them clear now.

She found the chant in question, reading it her usual three times—once at usual speed (to comprehend), again at a slower pace (to ensure she remembered and didn’t miss anything), and a final time at a skimming speed (to help determine the most important parts). Then, she simply handed the book to Miss Cackle.

The woman looked slightly perplexed, but began her reading.

For some reason, that only made Hecate’s blood boil. Here she was, pretending to be some kind of innocent victim. As if she didn’t know perfectly well what she’d done.

“Well,” Miss Cackle closed the book. “I think the first thing we should do is contain the spirit, don’t you think?”

“Agreed,” Hecate gave a curt nod.

A light knock sounded on the doorframe, and both witches turned to see Merinda Waters, holding a candle.

She tried to explain, “I…we took this one, from the summoning circle. Just to get back upstairs, because of the dark. I think….maybe that’s why….”

“Excellent deduction,” Hecate snapped her fingers, summoning the candle into her own hands. “Pity you couldn’t make it sooner.”

With a sharp pang in her chest, she realized she’d just done the same thing as her parents, as Alma, as Ada. She pressed her lips together, chest welling with sudden hurt.

Quietly, she added, “This will help, Merinda.”

The young girl simply nodded before disappearing down the hallway. Hecate’s eyes suddenly smarted; she blinked rapidly to make them stop.

It is not an easy thing, realizing that in some small way, you’ve become the monsters that once terrorized you. The thought was more terrifying that some fiendish ghoul that ripped apart innocent rodents.

“Shall we…carry on?” Miss Cackle’s voice was inexplicably soft, lined with care. Hecate didn’t look up—she could feel the woman’s gaze on her, knew that Miss Cackle was watching her expression and somehow understanding that Hecate was having a painful moment.

It only made her previous action of wounding Hecate with criticism even more incomprehensible.

Hecate didn’t like people that she couldn’t immediately understand, label, and file away. Those types were dangerous, and she avoided danger at all costs these days.

However, she simply cleared her throat, nodding in agreement. Marshalling her emotions into something less sloppy, she firmly announced, “Salt. We’ll need salt. And quite a lot, by the looks of it.”

Miss Cackle merely hummed in agreement, as Hecate transferred them to the kitchens.

* * *

Every entrance to the cellar system was thoroughly salted, and the missing candle was returned to the summoning circle. With their classes covered for the day, Miss Cackle suggested that they simply rest to make up for the lack of sleep, then begin their vigil in the cellars once classes ended for the day, since the spirit wouldn’t re-awaken until evening. Miss Hardbroom agreed and left promptly afterwards.

Ada visited her mother and told her of the plan. Though Alma didn’t necessarily like the idea, she understood that it was the surest way to end the situation, so she agreed.

Now all they had to do was wait.

* * *

By the time evening fell, Ada had convinced herself that, despite whatever mercurial basketcase Miss Hardbroom might be, she was still owed an apology, despite Ada’s cluelessness as to exactly what it was actually regarding. She realized that sometimes, intention didn’t matter—for whatever reason, her friendly teasing had been taken the wrong way, and she didn’t get to decide whether or not her words had somehow upset Miss Hardbroom. The only thing she could do was apologize and hope it mended whatever fence was broken between them.

After all, they’d most likely be working together for quite some time. Miss Hardbroom was young and she might very well scaper off with a better offer from another school (not that Ada would blame her), but until then, they did have to work together. Part of Ada’s job—and moreover, her moral responsibility as deputy and eventually headmistress—was to ensure that things continued smoothly between all members of staff, herself and Miss Hardbroom obviously included.

So when Miss Hardbroom appeared at the main entrance to the cellars, looking dour as ever, Ada summoned her courage and quietly said, “I’m sorry—about before. If I—well, you seemed upset by my words, and that certainly wasn’t my intent.”

Miss Hardbroom looked down at her, blinking in surprise. “I—right. Of course.”

And then she headed down the stairs. Ada wasn’t certain if her apology had actually been accepted.

That Miss Hardbroom was a strange one, indeed.

Hecate fought the urge to shake her head at her own idiocy. Accepting apologies was a bit like accepting compliments for her—she hadn’t received many over the years, so she’d never had much practice at dealing with them, graciously or otherwise.

And, of course, there was always the underlying suspicion that it wasn’t exactly what it said on the tin. Damn her mind for thinking it might just be a ploy on Miss Cackle’s part, for some currently unfathomable reason.

Again, she wanted to shake her head at the foolishness of such a thought.

She also wanted to kick herself for being so transparent, so obviously bratty that Miss Cackle had felt the need to apologize over something as insignificant as an off-hand remark.

_Except it wasn’t insignificant_, her mind retorted. _Not to you._

The fact that Miss Cackle had recognized that, and had subsequently taken steps to rectify the situation, only further tightened the knot in Hecate’s stomach.

The woman was definitely dangerous.

Given last night’s events, tonight they’d gone with the more modern solution of flashlights. Hecate clicked hers on and continued her descent—it was still daylight, but the cellars were black as night.

However, as soon as the light appeared, the darkness reacted. An angry screeching hiss filled the air, and a tunnel of wind barreled straight into Hecate’s chest, knocking her back. Miss Cackle, just a few steps behind, caught Hecate easily enough, her arms scooping under Hecate’s, bracing her against the fall. A ripple of a shielding spell fell over them and Miss Cackle tried to pull Hecate further up the stairs, closer to her.

A shrieking pain erupted in Hecate’s ankle and she knew she’d cracked it soundly against the stone step in her fall. Not a break, but certainly a damn good sprain. Miss Cackle was pulling so desperately that Hecate’s shoulders were beginning to twinge, but there was something comforting in the pain as the icy wind shrieked around them. She reached up to blindly pat Miss Cackle’s arm, silently assuring her that she was alright. Miss Cackle stopped pulling and Hecate felt the shielding spell strengthen, pushing back against the unseen attack. Even beneath the shield, the coolness of the air was palpable—Hecate knew that if they weren’t shielded, they’d feel the shards of ice slicing at their skin again.

The wind howled and banged against the now closed door at the top of the stairs, whipping back down over them again and screaming down the corridor once more.

After a few beats, Miss Cackle released her hold on Hecate, who gingerly scooted down a few steps, wincing at the pain in her ankle. Miss Cackle was on her feet, flashlight pointed in Hecate’s direction.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Hecate answered automatically. An experimental twitch of her foot brought another wave of sharp pain. “Well, perhaps I’ve been better.”

Miss Cackle carefully shuffled past on the stairs, long purple skirts fluttering against Hecate’s face and making her turn away, almost embarrassed by the proximity. Soon Miss Cackle was at the foot of the stairs, kneeling to inspect Hecate’s twisted ankle.

“May I?”

“No, I—it’s merely sprained.” Hecate slid her foot further away from the woman’s gaze. “I’ve had breaks before, I know what it feels like. This is quite minor, really. I can walk, even if it’s just to hobble.”

“Not in those heels,” Miss Cackle arched a brow as she looked pointedly at Hecate’s feet again.

“Are you suggesting I walk barefoot through the basement?” Hecate drawled. Miss Cackle huffed quietly in amusement.

Still, the woman had a point. With a sigh, Hecate snapped her fingers, removing her heeled boots. Another snap produced some compression wrap, which she wound around her injured ankle. Then she conjured the only flat-footed shoes she owned: her evening slippers.

Miss Cackle was smiling when Hecate looked up. “Well, at least you’ll be quite comfortable now, Miss Hardbroom.”

The same tone she’d made the vegan quip with. Hecate realized the woman really was only trying to be friendly.

As if the slippers and busted ankle didn’t make her feel like enough of an idiot already. She felt a sudden urge to apologize for her own behavior towards Miss Cackle, earlier in the day. Instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat and dryly returned, “I wasn’t aware there was a dress code for ghost hunting.”

“If there was, you’d certainly have it down pat,” Ada cast a lazy glance over the younger woman’s outfit. She wanted to laugh—even the compression bandage was black. In the shadowy darkness of the basement, it made Miss Hardbroom’s head and hands seem as if they were floating, ghostly apparitions of their own.

Miss Hardbroom gingerly rose to her feet, steadying herself against the stone wall. Ada offered her hand to help, which the younger woman surprisingly took. Thankfully there were only a few steps left on the staircase—and though Miss Hardbroom tried valiantly to hide it, her pain was still evident in her pale and tensed face.

“Perhaps we should get you back upstairs,” Ada suggested. “Mrs. Drill can help me—”

“Absolutely not.” The vehemence in Miss Hardbroom’s voice startled Ada. Despite the pain, her face was set in a resolute expression. “We made a plan, Miss Cackle, and we will follow it. Besides, that thing knows we’re here, which means every minute counts. I may not be able to physically chase any ghosts at the moment, but I’m still the best partner you’ve got.”

Ada couldn’t argue with that logic (wasn’t sure that she'd win even if the logic was faulty—Miss Hardbroom was a bit overwhelming, when she was determined). She and Miss Hardbroom had formed their plan earlier, and had covered every possible scenario (well, _almost_ every possible one—they hadn’t accounted for near-crippling injuries). It would take a while for anyone else to get up to speed. And truth be told, Ada wasn’t sure that anyone else would be as seamless to work with. For all her oddities and abruptness, Miss Hardbroom was an ace partner.

It took them longer than usual to prepare, with Miss Hardbroom’s injured ankle. They checked each room, and once it was cleared, they salted the entry as well, further tightening the spirit’s realm of movement. At least Miss Hardbroom was being relatively sensible about it—she’d simply transfer to each corridor, waiting at one end while Ada cleared a room, then transferring to the other end when Ada was finished with that particular hallway.

They left the final corridor unchecked. They had to wait until the exact hour that the spirit had been summoned to send it back, and there was no sense disturbing it further until absolutely necessary.

Instead, they returned to the store room where the spirit had been summoned. Miss Hardbroom gratefully took a seat on an old crate, using her magic to round the candles up into a circle again as Ada made the other necessary preparations.

All too soon, they’d done what they could. Ada checked her watch. They still had time to spare. Further down the corridor, something clattered and shuffled. She glanced over at Miss Hardbroom, whose expression only mirrored the anxiety she felt.

Ada placed salt across the open doorframe, offering a small, tight smile as she explained, “Perhaps we should make sure our little friend doesn’t join us early.”

Miss Hardbroom nodded in agreement. She shifted slightly on her makeshift seat, delicately bringing her injured ankle up to balance atop the opposite knee. She gingerly unwrapped the compression bandage, leaning in to inspect the damage.

Ada sent both of their flashlights to the ceiling, floating above to beam down on them. She noticed that even Miss Hardbroom’s toenails were painted jet black. This time, she couldn’t help but ask, “Is there a singe thing you own or wear that isn’t entirely black?”

Miss Hardbroom looked up, slightly surprised by the question. Then, she blinked. “It’s the color of witches.”

“All colors are the color of witches,” Ada returned easily. “By being a witch and simply wearing a color, you make it the color of witches.”

Miss Hardbroom hummed at that. Ada was afraid that she’d pushed too far, but then the younger woman arched a brow as she drawled, “And tell me, do shades of pink immediately make you think of powerful practitioners of the craft?”

Ada felt like that might be a slight barb about some of her own wardrobe choices. Still, she found herself challenging, “It should. In fact, I would venture that actually, pink is the witchiest color a witch could choose to wear.”

Miss Hardbroom was merely staring at her now, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Explain.” She said simply.

The problem was, Ada couldn’t actually explain. She’d just been ruffled by Miss Hardbroom’s unspoken (and perhaps unintended) criticism, so she’d said the first thing that had come to mind.

Not that she’d admit that to Miss Hardbroom, mind you.

So, a bit like during her university days, she spitballed the idea into something plausible sounding, without any real research.

“Well, pink is the color of love—all love generally, but also self-love, and self-acceptance.” Ada’s mind desperately scrawled through her years of magical color theory learning, with crystals and candles. “And a powerful witch should have a healthy dose of both.”

Miss Hardbroom’s eyebrows lifted—she obviously didn’t quite believe Ada’s theory, but she wasn’t going to interrupt it. Ada charged on, building off of Hecate’s speech about the rats from that morning, “Being a creature of the goddess, a witch is worthy of her own love, and part of being a competent spellcaster is knowing your abilities, your strengths and weaknesses, and accepting them, so that you can best use them to your advantage.”

The next part was something she shouldn’t say—something Alma wouldn’t certainly criticize her for, but it was still absolutely true, and she actually felt safe, sharing it here, “And perhaps, most importantly, pink is the color of femininity, the divine feminine. Our society may be a bit patriarchal now, what with a Great Wizard in charge, but the witches of Britain’s greatest strength has been to shun the ways of the Romans and their descendants, and allowing women to make their own choices, for the most part.”

Miss Hardbroom blinked sharply, and Ada wasn’t sure if she’d upset the woman again. Still, she continued, “By embracing our feminine side—by being women and still holding our own power, still accepting our power and loving ourselves, despite an entire world designed to push us to the exact opposite—we are, in some small way, rioting against societal norms and stereotypes. And honestly, is there any greater homage to the archetype of the witch? One could say that every time a witch wears pink, she’s claiming back something lost, and reminding the world that you can be pink and frilly and still utterly powerful, that dichotomies are ridiculous and no one should live in a box of handed-down expectations set by staid old men whose bones have long returned to dust. Disrupting the norms, embracing self and the power that comes from it—that, Miss Hardbroom, is the _epitome_ of witchery. So yes, wearing pink may be the witchiest thing a witch could do.”

“Aside from practicing magic and actually being a witch,” Miss Hardbroom drawled, one eyebrow arching. She looked as if maybe she were going to smile, but Ada didn’t know if it was a smile of agreement or one of patronizing amusement from Ada’s naivete.

“Yes, well, I did say _may_ be,” Ada returned easily.

Miss Hardbroom returned her attention to her ankle. It was then that Ada realized that during her entire speech, the woman had been watching her with rapt focus.

Long fingers delicately prodded the swollen ankle, where a bruise had already begun to form. Miss Hardbroom pushed a little harder, giving a small hiss at her own actions before lightly rolling her foot, as if trying to work the pain away.

“As soon as we get back upstairs, you’re letting me take a look at that,” Ada informed her.

“No matter what happens tonight, I think my ankle still shan’t be the first thing we worry about, once this is over,” Miss Hardbroom grimaced slightly. She began re-wrapping the ankle in question, resuming a curter air, “It will be just fine, Miss Cackle. A bit of willowbark tea to help with the pain and by tomorrow morning, it’ll be quite better.”

“Not to sound too overbearing, Miss Hardbroom, but you are my responsibility,” Ada reminded her.

Miss Hardbroom’s gaze snapped up at that, something odd and almost-hunted in her dark eyes. However, she quickly resumed a more casual air, shrugging with the nonchalance befitting an unbothered cat as she wriggled her foot back into her slipper, shifting slightly in her seat again.

Ada’s words had affected her, even though Ada wasn’t sure how or why—Ada considered apologizing again, but something told her that Miss Hardbroom would prefer not to broach the subject of whatever had just happened.

“I have a duty to care towards all of the staff,” Ada pointed out, hoping this eased over whatever had just happened. “And to make it worse, you were injured while following one of _my_ hare-brained schemes.”

“You aren’t—the plan isn’t hare-brained,” Miss Hardbroom sat up a little straighter, as if offended. “It’s the best shot we’ve got—quite frankly, it’s the _only_ shot we’ve got.”

“I just meant…” Ada’s hands fluttered out helplessly, as lost as she was in trying to find her point.

“I understand,” Miss Hardbroom returned quietly, and Ada believed her.

Something skittered and rippled in the corridor. Ada instinctively took a step back, still peering into the darkness. Miss Hardbroom shifted as well, leaning forward as if to reach for Ada, to pull her back further to safety.

Ada could almost physically feel the thing moving closer, the way it pushed against the thick line of salt she’d placed just inside the door, sniffing and snuffling like some kind of beast on the hunt. The air became noticeably colder. Her throat tightened with dread. Behind her, she sensed Miss Hardbroom slowly rising to her feet, ready for an attack.

The door and its broken hinges was still in the hallway. Slowly, it rose up, lifted by unseen hands, scraping against the stone floor as it shifted back into place.

There was an awful metallic shriek as the hinges wrapped back around, following by a heavy, shunting sound of the door pushing back into place.

Ada wanted to glance back at Miss Hardbroom, but she feared looking away from the door. From outside, there were further noises, heavy noises, things being pushed against the door.

“Are we—we’re being trapped in,” Miss Hardbroom’s voice was a sharp whisper, lined with panic.

Ada nodded in agreement, mind spinning as she checked her watch. In ten minutes, they could start the reversal summoning.

“How long do we have?” Miss Hardbroom’s voice was still tight with barely-constrained panic.

“Ten minutes,” Ada answered. She turned back with a smile. “At least we know it’s still here, right?”

“Where else would it be?” Miss Hardbroom asked. “We salted every door and window.”

“Well, at least we know we didn’t miss a spot.”

Miss Hardbroom looked at her as if she’d grown a second head.

“I’m just trying to find a positive in the situation,” Ada informed her.

“And that’s the best you came up with?”

Ada laughed, nerves skittering.

Miss Hardbroom took a long, slow breath, trying to steady herself. Her hands pressed down the front of her black skirt, fingers flexed out rigidly—Ada realized it was to keep them from shaking. Not that she blamed the woman. Currently, her knees were doing a rather spot-on impersonation of a bowl of jelly.

The younger woman looked around the room, speaking more to herself than Ada, “We have the spell. We have the candles. We have ten minutes—”

“Eight,” Ada corrected. Miss Hardbroom gave a small, quick nod, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

An odd gurgling noise began to rise. The two witches looked around the room, confused.

Then, the splatter of water upon stone.

Miss Hardbroom whipped around to the source of the sound—at the top of each wall in every room within the cellar system was a metal grate, to help with air flow. But currently, it wasn’t air flowing between the bars.

“Oh, bats,” Miss Hardbroom’s voice was low, slow and tinged with dread. “How long do we have?”

“Still eight minutes.”

The water went from a trickle to a steady flow, then burst into a full-force jet. The entire floor was covered in a thin layer of water.

Miss Hardbroom shifted, as if trying to lift her feet out of the water, looking a bit like a cat who’d accidentally stepped in a puddle. She turned back to Ada, the fear evident in every line of her expression.

Ada turned back to the door and pushed out with her magic. It didn’t budge. Miss Hardbroom tried to help. Again, nothing.

“We have to stay,” Ada reasoned. “We can’t—we have to finish this.”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” Miss Hardbroom agreed, in a roundabout way.

“Yes, well, there’s that, too.”

Miss Hardbroom was smirking when Ada glanced back at her.

The water was now above their ankles. Ada checked her watch again.

Six minutes.

The water was pushing higher, nearly at their knees. Miss Hardbroom turned back, reaching out to bestow a floating spell on the unlit candles, using her magic to keep them bobbing in a circle. Unsure of what else to do, Ada pulled the piece of paper from her pocket, reading over the words of the spell she would need to cast in…five minutes. She knew the words by heart now, she'd made sure of it, but she felt the need to do _something_.

The water was now at Ada’s hips.

“Now seems like a rather good time to ask if you can swim, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Never tried with a bad ankle and a long skirt,” Miss Hardbroom admitted. “But one supposes there’s a first time for everything.”

Ada hadn’t thought about that. She took a step forward, noticing just how heavy her own skirt was, twisting around her legs, pulling her back, weighing her down.

Four minutes.

“Tell me when it’s time to light the candles,” Miss Hardbroom must have seen her glance at her watch again. Not that she needed a visual reminder—at this point, they were both highly aware of the passing time.

“Oh, I assure you, Miss Hardbroom, I shan’t waste a second on that front.” Ada began pushing through the water, which was surging up to her chest. “We should go ahead and…move to the middle of the circle, though, don’t you think?”

Miss Hardbroom didn’t reply. She just moved forward, the pain evident in her face at the effort it took, the pressure her injury sustained from the added force of walking through water.

Ada slipped out of her sweater, magicking her dress away, too. Then she dove into the water, slicing through easily enough. She didn’t dare open her eyes underwater—the amount of dust in the room beforehand would ensure it was murky and she’d get goddess-only-knew what in her eye. She popped back up again a few feet away, happy to see that she’d swam far enough to put herself inside the circle.

Miss Hardbroom was watching her with wide eyes. Ada realized it was because at this point, it was obvious that she was only wearing her underclothes. Not that anything was visible—the water was now to her shoulders.

“Come along,” she floated forward just a little, reaching out from Miss Hardbroom’s hands. The younger witch grabbed Ada, and Ada pulled Miss Hardbroom through the water with ease. Miss Hardbroom had lifted her feet to help, the paleness of her face proving that her sprained ankle was certainly hurting now.

Ada adjusted, grabbing Miss Hardbroom’s wrists now—somehow that seemed less…intimate, than holding hands (why the hell Ada was concerned about such things right now, she didn’t know).

Miss Hardbroom lifted her wrist, pulling Ada’s closer to her to read Ada’s watch.

“Two minutes,” she announced, looking back to Ada with wide eyes. Her hair was coming loose from her usual uptight bun, black streaks plastering across her pale face. She looked so young now, even younger than she had the night before, in front of the fire.

The water rose, and so did they. Ada felt her toes lift off the floor, involuntarily kicking to stay upright and afloat. It would have been easier if she’d used her arms as well, but she wasn’t letting go of Miss Hardbroom, whose clenched jaw and heavy breathing belied just how hard it was to keep herself afloat.

“I mean this in the most unseductive way possible,” Ada informed her, tinging her words with an air of mock seriousness. “But you need to lose the skirt, Miss Hardbroom.”

Ada felt something heavy slither past her feet and she knew the woman had listened—it was also evident in the fact that some of the tension left Miss Hardbroom’s shoulders, with several pounds less to battle against.

Except now Miss Hardbroom was shirking, trying to stop the top of her bun from bumping up against the ceiling. They were running out of space—and time.

“Right, I think it’s time we light those candles,” Ada tried to stay calm.

Miss Hardbroom nodded, closing her eyes for a moment as the circle erupted into flame.

“Petti-pats, Petti-pats, time to come and play, the dawn has come, our time is done, and now you must away. Back to whence you came, fair fiend, make mischief here no more. Petti-pats, Petti-pats, we sweep you out the door.”

Miss Hardbroom looked around wildly. Nothing happened. The water still rose.

“What—that should have—” Miss Hardbroom’s words were cut off by her own strangled noise as the water pushed her harder against the ceiling, causing her to duck her head, face first into the water. Under the water, her fingers scrambled against Ada’s skin, wrapping around Ada’s wrists and tightening with fear.

Ada shifted, helping Miss Hardbroom turn so that her face could still be above the water. Soon she was doing the same. Her mind whipped through everything—they’d prepared the room, they’d said the chant, they’d set—

“The salt!” She yelled, not sure if Miss Hardbroom could actually hear her, since the water was covering their ears now. By now, it was dissolved into the water of the room, but the blocking spell she’d placed over it still covered the door. Ada closed her eyes, undoing her own spell.

The candles went out, pressed too closely against the ceiling.

“Miss Hardbroom!”

The woman squeezed Ada’s wrist in response. _I can hear you, I’m still here._

“Use a bubble capsule spell on the candles. Take them under and relight them!”

She couldn’t hear it, but she felt Miss Hardbroom taking a deep breath before slipping under the water. An eerie glow came from below, and Ada knew she’d done it, putting each candle in its own bubble and relighting them. Taking a deep breath herself, she recited the chant again.

Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sank beneath the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, this is my attempt to answer the riddle behind the obvious inside joke of Hecate's "witches don't really do pink" line in the pilot. Clever of you to notice.


	4. Chapter 4

Being underwater was a bit like being wrapped in wool—everything sounded odd and distorted. Hecate didn’t realize how much so until all the water suddenly shifted, pulling her in an odd tidal wave. She slammed into a wall and the little air still left in her lungs was knocked out entirely, replaced by a surge of water.

She fell to the floor coughing and choking—

_Floor_. She fell the floor. The wet-but-still-not-underwater floor, solid beneath her. If she could breath, she’d be shouting for joy.

A hard whack between her shoulder blades dislodged the water in her throat, and glorious air filled her lungs.

A blanket was wrapping around her—she looked up to see Miss Cackle, also wrapped in a blanket, face etched with worry.

“Are you alright?” Her blue eyes were shining like stars in the darkness. _They really are beautiful_, Hecate thought dazedly.

“I—I’ve been better,” Hecate admitted, her throat still raw and aching from the coughing. There was an awful taste in her mouth; she didn’t even want to consider the source.

Miss Cackle gave a sputtering, incredulous laugh at her response. Finally, she said, “Me, too. I’ve certainly been better, too.”

“It…worked?” Hecate blinked, her eyes feeling heavy and clogged as they tried to rebalance to their natural saline state, without the water. She glanced around at the room—the door was blown off again, a few candles were scattered. Her skirt was nowhere to be seen. She assumed it rushed out the door with the rest of the water.

“It worked,” Miss Cackle smiled breathlessly.

Hecate sank back against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. It was over. Thank the goddess.

* * *

It wasn’t entirely over. They dried themselves and their clothes, redressed, set the room back to some sort of right, and removed the salt from all the other doors and entrances. Soon they were upstairs again, removing the last line of salt from the main entrance to the cellar.

“I should inform the headmistress of our success,” Miss Cackle suggested. She sounded hesitant, as if she feared upsetting Hecate with her announcement (yes, the woman was dangerous, she paid far too close attention to Hecate, understood her far too well).

Hecate merely nodded. Of course, Alma needed to know. Hecate was grateful that Miss Cackle wasn’t expecting her to tag along.

“You should get some rest,” Miss Cackle reached out, almost as if she was going to pat Hecate’s shoulder, but she stopped herself.

But Hecate didn’t want to be alone. She heard herself blurting out, “I could—I’ll wait for you. In the library, if that’s alright?”

Miss Cackle seemed surprised by the offer, but she quickly recovered with a soft smile. “Sounds lovely. I trust you’ll go ahead and make some willowbark tea? I think after all that rough and tumble, we’ll both need some.”

Hecate merely nodded, transferring away to the library. She barely had the magical strength left to call forth a fire in the fireplace and a tea service between the chairs, but she managed. Then she settled into a chair with a heavy sigh and waited.

* * *

For some reason, Ada didn’t want to tell her mother the full story. It felt…wrong, somehow. It was something she and Miss Hardbroom had survived, alone, together. She still gave all the necessary details, still assured her mother that they were all safe and sound now. But the rest wasn’t entirely her own story to tell.

Soon she was hurrying down the halls, back to the library. By the time she got there, Miss Hardbroom was dozing off, one foot propped up on an ottoman and a cup of tea cooling on the little table beside her chair.

Ada didn’t want to wake her. Instead, she called forth a blanket to lightly place over the woman.

However the small action made Miss Hardbroom bolt awake, startling Ada, who in turn further startled Miss Hardbroom.

“I’m so sorry!” Ada gushed. She was still clutching the edge of the blanket holding it up in explanation, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s quite alright,” Miss Hardbroom assured her, sitting up a little straighter. Ada gently released the blanket, letting it rest in the younger woman’s lap. She turned her attention to making her own cuppa.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Better now, thanks to the tea.”

Ada settled into her chair with a hum. When she glanced over, Miss Hardbroom was watching her with an unreadable expression, head cocked slightly to one side.

“So. Thoughts on purple?”

“What?”

“Given your thoughts on pink, one can only assume you’ve a similar affection for purple.” To emphasize her point, Miss Hardbroom’s expressive fingers rippled towards Ada’s dress.

“I do,” Ada admitted.

Miss Hardbroom hummed, as if her deepest suspicions had been confirmed. “Any dazzling theories to back it up?”

There was a touch of haughty snark to her words, but Ada saw the genuine curiosity in Miss Hardbroom’s expression and realized that she wasn’t being condescending. She was being...conversational. Friendly, in her own stilted way.

“To be honest,” Ada glanced down at her tea with a sheepish smile. “All that stuff about pink—it was utter bullshit.”

She looked up again to see Miss Hardbroom’s eyebrows had lifted to her hairline.

“I just—my pride got the better of me, and I just wanted to prove you wrong. To win,” Ada confessed. “So I just threw together some stuff and hoped it sounded convincing enough to pass.”

A beat followed.

Then, of all things, Miss Hardbroom laughed.

“You are a very excellent bullshitter, Miss Cackle,” she pronounced.

For some reason, Ada blushed as if she’d been given the highest compliment of her life.

“And for the record,” Miss Hardbroom’s voice softened, just a tad. “Regardless of your theory's origins, it was rather well constructed. You have…quite an extensive knowledge base to back it up.”

The younger woman looked down at her tea shyly, as if she’d confessed some deep, dark secret. Ada simply sat there for a moment, sipping her tea and enjoying the warmth of the fire as her brain reeled for a response. Her natural retort would be to say that Miss Hardbroom was wrong, she was just ridiculous, just spinning silly tales like when she was a child—but it was obvious that Miss Hardbroom didn’t give compliments often…and honestly, Ada didn’t _want_ her to be wrong. She wanted to be whoever Miss Hardbroom saw in that moment—she wanted to be the things she didn’t always see in herself. Knowledgeable, self-assured, competent, beyond doubt.

It was Miss Hardbroom who broke the silence, looking up with a sense of expectancy.

“Purple,” she prompted again.

Ada felt the smile blossoming across her face, echoing in her chest with warm. “Right. Purple.”

It was still a bunch of slap-dash grabbing at straw, but somehow, Miss Hardbroom’s attention made her feel as if she were giving an actual lecture on color theory, riffing off the symbolism of crystals and herbs as well. Occasionally Miss Hardbroom would interject, testing some edge of Ada’s theory, but it wasn’t combative—if anything, it made Ada dig deeper, find more connection.

And even when Miss Hardbroom huffed and rolled her eyes, it never felt negative or argumentative. It wasn’t a feeling of adversaries, but of teammates.

Friends, even.

And even then, Ada Cackle felt the prickle of _beginning_. Something new was happening in this quiet little library, she knew. The foundation of something strong, something good, something lasting.

For the first time since her arrival two years ago, she felt a sense of roots taking place. Hopefully to grow for many more years to come.


End file.
